


crimson skies

by novoaa1



Category: DCU, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: BAMF Harleen Quinzel, Blood and Violence, Episode: s04e15 O Brother Where Art Thou?, F/F, Guns, POV Harleen Quinzel, and also, harley and ivy being cute vigilante girlfriends on hte righ tside of the law for once, harley calling lex 'baldy' sldfkjlfkdjf, harley not liking cops, harley quinn should maybe do cardio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: He chuckles at that, like it’s funny. “Doctor Harleen Quinzel.” The way he says her full name sends a shiver down her spine. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”She huffs testily, vision blackening around the edges. “I ain’t havetimefor this, Mistah Clean—just step away from the lady.”Don’t kill him, Harley. We need himalive!Ivy’s crackly voice sounds distantly from the open flip-phone at her feet, even as Harley’s head throbs and her muscles scream and she's justitchin'to pull the trigger—“You heard Doctor Isley,” Baldy supplements smugly, dark eyes glittering coldly beneath the lurid crimson effulgence. “You can’t—"BANG!
Relationships: Lena Luthor & Harleen Quinzel, Lena Luthor & Lex Luthor, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 94





	crimson skies

**Author's Note:**

> a random ass one shot with a whole plot and backstory for absolutely no reason other than i like the idea of harley and lena meeting somehow and knowing each other 
> 
> no i will not explain any further

“Y'know, Red,” Harley complains between heaving gasps as she hightails her ass up the freakin’ _billionth_ flight of stairs; she's on her way up to the penthouse of LuthorCorp, and she’s got her trusty periwinkle-purple RAZR flip-phone balanced carefully between her sweat-slick cheek and bare shoulder all the while. "Remind me why we don't just let the Metro pigs save the Luthor Princess from her brother's,” she pauses herself with a desperate heaving inhale, “ _stupid_ tower?” 

Her heart thuds painfully in her chest as she grabs the cool metal railing with her right hand to yank herself forwards (with an additional deft push off the cemented wall at her 8 o'clock) to scramble up the next flight of stairs, generated momentum nipping at her heels. 

She barely hears Ivy let out an exasperated sigh over the line, blood rushin’ deafeningly in her ears—she has to strain in order to catch Ivy’s ensuing response: “This was _your_ idea, lover.”

Harley scoffs in annoyance (though she thinks it’s barely noticeable, what with how hard she’s huffin’ and puffin’ trying to scale these steps—God, she _really_ should do more cardio). 

“But they’re already in the _elevator_ , Red,” she wines breathlessly into the speaker, silently begging Ivy to call this whole thing off even as she throws her body forward into the air and kicks herself off the wall opposite the next flight with a throaty grunt. She lands halfway up the next flight of steps with a groan, her leg muscles burning with the strain as she nearly trips over her own sneaker-clad feet in an effort to keep moving up, up, up—past a polished obsidian-black square-shaped sign that reads “Floor 99” in white lettering and onto the next. 

Ivy’s sultry voice is chiding—almost _teasing_ as she replies: “I don’t have to remind you that a solid half of the Metropolis Police Department is working for Lex, do I? If that poor girl falls into their hands, she’s as good as dead.”

Harley nods shakily to herself at that (even if there’s no one around to see it), heartbeat pounding in her ears, the coppery taste of blood staining her tongue. 

“I know, I know,” she gasps, sharply turning the corner and nearly crying out with relief as she spots a neatly-stenciled white “P” up on the next square-shaped nameplate beside a steel-reinforced charcoal-grey door. Its sleek handle is secured with a heavy-duty black padlock (the LuthorCorp logo emblazoned in white upon its front), but that’s hardly a deterrent (if any at all). 

“I made it, Red,” she heaves once she’s miraculously managed to clamber up the final flight of steps without face-planting. She lets herself collapse against the wall just adjacent to the Penthouse entrance, pale inked-up legs trembling violently beneath her. " _Shit_ , I’m gonna throw up.”

“No, no, no, Harley darling, you can’t do that—you gotta go,” Ivy encourages, an urgent note creeping into her typically so perfectly-measured tone. “C’mon, babydoll, let’s just get this done, yea? Grab the girl, get out—and I _promise_ you, you’ll never have to go up another flight of stairs ever again.”

Harley grits her teeth at that, shoulder aching painfully even as she struggles to keep the flip-phone exactly where it is against her slippery cheek. 

“I’m holdin’ you to that, Red,” she chokes out weakly even while she starts grabbin' blindly for her trusty chrome-silver baseball bat where it sits strapped securely upon her back between either shoulder blade. 

She yanks it loose with a muted shriek as the movement has her shoulder muscles _screaming_ in protest, then pushes herself off the wall and guides the dented barrel of the bat to tap the logo-emblazoned padlock with a distant-sounding _clink!_

Her lungs burn; her body trembles; each desperate inhale echoes loudly in the stairwell as she secures one hand tightly around the rubber-bound grip and the other around the barrel (its surface littered with various questionable stains). Her wind-up is quick—half a second, maybe—before she’s bringing the metallic implement down as hard as she can manage against the lock with a fuckin’ _shriek_ of pain and frustration and bone-deep _fatigue_. 

The lock gives after that single blow with a noisy _CLANG!_ and falls to the cemented floor beneath with a decidedly unsatisfying series of metallic clicks. 

Still, Harley barely spares it a moment’s thought before she’s curling a sweaty hand around the door handle and wrenching it open with another panting cry, entirely unhearing unto Ivy’s approving, “That’s my girl” over the line. 

A second later finds her practically falling into the cavernous penthouse beyond (which bathed in a eerie saturated blood-red light that streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows from somewhere overhead—something Harley mighta’ found pretty freakin’ cool, under way different circumstances). 

She thinks it’s the luckiest day of her whole life that there’s a government-issued pistol laid next to an unconscious Metro P Pig in Blue as she stumbles in; all the same, she barely feels herself reach for it, barely hears her trusty bat as it clangs noisily against the pretentious marbled flooring beneath her. It’s all… distant. Tinny. 

She doesn’t quite know how long it takes, or how she goes about it, but some time later she’s pulled back by the harsh squeak of her worn Converse against the alabaster as she limps like a freakin’ zombie towards Baldy where he stands. He's lording himself audaciously over a pretty green-eyed lady with pin-straight raven-black hair and a ridiculously defined jaw line, and she feels like shooting him. 

So, she cocks the pistol and raises it, aiming right in the center of his shiny ole’ head.

_God, he looks like a Class A jackass_ , she thinks.

“Get away from 'er,” Harley manages to gasp out once she’s stopped herself an arm’s length or two away from the two of ‘em, gun aimed at Baldy’s head in a trembling hand even as her other comes up to peel the flip phone from her sticky face. 

It takes a not insignificant amount of effort to keep all her attentions upon Baldy even as she consciously loosens her grip to let the device clatter audibly to the floor at her feet—still, she manages somehow. 

(She’ll check back in with Ivy once she’s sorted things out with Baldy and his supermodel sister.)

He chuckles at that, like it’s funny. “Doctor Harleen Quinzel.” The way he says her full name sends a shiver down her spine. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

She huffs testily, vision blackening around the edges. “I ain’t have _time_ for this, Mistah Clean—just step away from the lady.”

_Don’t kill him, Harley. We need him alive!_ Ivy’s crackly voice sounds distantly from the open flip-phone at her feet, even as Harley’s head throbs and her muscles scream and she's just _itchin'_ to pull the trigger—

“You heard Doctor Isley,” Baldy supplements smugly, dark eyes glittering coldly beneath the lurid crimson effulgence. “You can’t—"

_BANG!_

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“You _bitch!_ ” Baldy sputters from where he lies sprawled inelegantly upon the polished marble, thick rivulets of scarlet blood (it looks almost black in the otherworldly orange-reddish luminescence) pooling beneath his pantsuit-clad thigh. 

Harley ignores him. 

Instead, she jolts herself into action: shoving the pistol into the waistband of her admittedly super-short jean shorts (though not before expertly turning the safety on) right at the base of her hips, clumsily snatching up the phone and pressing it against her ear, then stumbling her way over to a wide-eyed and slack-jawed female Luthor. She hasn’t moved an inch: still bound firmly to an office chair with plastic black zip-ties around her reddened wrists and rope securing her delicate ankles tightly together. 

“Hiya,” Harley murmurs breathlessly out, addressing both Ivy on the other end of the line and the pretty Luthor girl even as another pained groan from behind has her itching to whirl around and put another bullet in that bald asshole (— _anything_ to make him shut his disproportionately massive trap). 

“Jesus, Harls,” comes Ivy’s shaky intonation through the flip-phone’s shitty speakers. “You fucking _scared_ me.”

Harley lets out a winded chuckle at that, even as she yanks sharply at the zip-ties secured tightly around Luthor lady’s wrists, the plastic digging painfully into her sweaty fingers before finally giving way with a satisfying _snap!_ “Ya doubted me, huh?”

“Never.”

“Bullshit,” she quips back, lungs burning, her—

A series of rumbling noise from the adjacent hall (likely where the building’s elevators are located) stops her mid-thought, suppressed male voices echoing throughout the space—they’ve run out of time, evidently. 

_Great_.

“Hey, Red?” she whispers into the phone even as she nudges the wheeled office chair that currently seats the wide-eyed Luthor lady (her ankles still bound snugly with thick coils of nylon rope) back behind the nearest rectangular pillar with her toe. Next, she pulls the pistol from her waistband and turns to face the doorless entrance to the hallway with a clenched jaw and determined glare. ( _I’m so fucked_ , she thinks.)

“You’re so screwed now,” Baldy boasts lowly even as burgundy blood stains his bigass front teeth and a small dahlia-red droplet trickles down from the corner of his lips. He lets out a weak wet-sounding chuckle, too, for good measure, sending tiny speckles of gooey black-looking blood spattering across the marble. (Harley swears she's never wanted to shoot someone so bad in her entire _life_.)

“Get _out_ of there, Harley—"

“Too late,” she murmurs, disabling the safety with a _click!_ and tightening her sweaty grip around the government-issue handgun. “I’m gonna be needin' an extraction.”

“Wh—'An extraction’? Harley, n—How the _fuck_ am I supposed to—"

Unfortunately, she doesn’t quite get to hear the rest of what she’s sure was a truly aggrandizing lecture on responsibility and Harley’s pesky tendency to spring things upon poor Pam-a-lamb without so much as a warning beforehand. 

No, before they can get to that, she's shutting the flip-phone with a satisfying _clat!_ as three bulletproof-vested Metropolis unis lead what looks to be a whole entire freakin’ _squadron_ of officers round the corner and enter the spacious penthouse. Each of their government-issue pistols are aimed steadfastly at yours truly as they creep into the room, matching all-black combat boots squeaking noisily against the marble with every step. 

(She trusts Red to figure things out on her end, even if she’s gonna be mad as a box of frogs at Harley for gettin’ the two of 'em into this shitshow to begin with.

At the rate things are goin’, Harley expects she’ll be spendin' her nights out on the living room couch in the apartment the two of ‘em share with Kitty back in Gotham for the next couple weeks, at _least_.) 

“Hey, boys,” she drawls, all flirty and coy (a trademark attribute which the breathless quality to her voice only serves to further enhance) while shoving the flip phone into the butt pocket of her jeans as something of an afterthought. 

Predictably, none of the stoic armor-padded boys in blue offer up a response. 

Instead, they’re all business: methodically dispersing themselves to enclose her in a near-perfect semi-circle where she stands motionless, the steel barrels of their guns trained resolutely upon her lone figure. (Miraculously, it seems they have yet to take notice of pretty lady Luthor concealed hastily just behind the column—Harley figures it’s just a matter a’ time, though.) 

“‘Bout time ya finally got here. Dont’cha know it’s rude to keep a lady waitin’?"

✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮

**Author's Note:**

> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search up @ultralightdumbass to come talk to me there!)
> 
> also feel free to drop a comment and let me know what you think :)


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